


Do Androids Dream?

by cherie_morte



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Blade Runner AU, Bladerunner, Cyborgs, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, Robot Sex, Robots, bladerunner au, inspired by Blade Runner, inspired by Bladerunner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 09:01:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8280277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherie_morte/pseuds/cherie_morte
Summary: AU: Sam has been training to be a blade runner most of his life, ever since a group of rogue replicants killed his mother in an attempt to kidnap him as a baby. Now he's one of the top officers in the L.A. Police Department's Blade Running Unit, with a reputation for being ruthless when retiring rebellious androids. Problem is: Sam's never been as comfortable killing replicants as he pretends to be; growing up with Dean as his primary caretaker and a valued member of the family has left Sam with a weak spot for androids that he knows might get him killed one day. Knowing that doesn't stop Sam from loving Dean, or from wishing his replicant was as human as he acts. Now he's on the trail of Azazel, the yellow-eyed android responsible for ruining his life, but the closer he gets to retiring Azazel and putting an end to his days as a blade runner, the more he learns that there might be no turning back for him and Dean. (Loosely based on Blade Runner)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blythechild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blythechild/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Do Androids Dream?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043461) by [blythechild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blythechild/pseuds/blythechild). 



> Written for [spn_cinema](http://spn-cinema.livejournal.com/) where my prompt was **Blade Runner**. With many thanks to the mods both for running this awesome challenge and for allowing me to adopt a slightly later posting date. Thanks are also in order for [riyku](http://riyku.livejournal.com/) & [BockVer](https://twitter.com/BockVer), my two darlings who volunteered to beta THIS MORNING and got it back to me so fast and with so much useful input. But by far my most dramatic thanks (and apologies) are for [blythechild](http://archiveofourown.org/users/blythechild/pseuds/blythechild) who claimed this story in 2013 and did AMAZING BEAUTIFUL ART for a story that never came to be UNTIL TODAY! As a warning, the art contains a big, big spoiler for the story! You should DEFINITELY LOOK AT THIS ART, but probably read the story first (unless you don't want to read the story, in which case you should nonetheless oogle the art).

Sam's shaking. He's still goddamn shaking. You'd think he was a rookie the way he's letting this case get to him.

"You sure you're okay, Winchester?"

He looks to his right and forces a smile, nodding at his partner. He'd kind of forgotten he wasn't alone while he was staring into his drink and feeling sorry for himself. Not that Sam minds the company. He likes Victor, and there's a lot to be said for having someone competent at your side, but when he asked Sam what his plans for tonight were and Sam answered honestly, he hadn't really been hoping it would be taken as an invitation.

"I'm great," he says, and fuck, his voice is too damn tight. It wouldn't convince a replicant, let alone a human of above-average intelligence. "We got the bad guy, right? What could be wrong?"

Victor grins and raises his bourbon for a toast. "Only problem I can see is that I'm never gonna edge you out of the competition if we keep working jobs together."

He laughs as their glasses clink and downs his scotch. "You're never gonna edge me out period. I keep telling you that."

"You talk real big," Victor says. "Me? I prefer to let my near-perfect retirement record speak for itself."

Sam lets his head fall a little as he laughs, takes a few seconds to breathe in deep and hold it before he looks back up. "This is gonna be just like the academy," Sam tells him. "You and I are gonna spend our whole career competing—"

"Only to get our asses kicked by Agent Moore?" Victor raises an eyebrow, and when Sam nods, he leans in conspiratorially. "There are worse ways to go down than under her, huh?"

Sam shakes his head, but he doesn't contradict it. He has eyes; it's not like it's never occurred to him that Jess is hot. He even tried dating her for a few months in school, but of course, it's hard to hold a relationship when you're fucked up ten ways from Sunday. Victor doesn't know about that, so he doesn't ever miss a chance to try and work some cupid magic to get Sam and Jess back together.

Or…maybe it's just the opposite. Maybe Victor suspects exactly what about this case is getting so deep under Sam's skin. Maybe that's why he's so determined to set Sam and Jess up: he's trying to help Sam, because in love with a replicant is no way for a blade runner to go through life.

He sticks his hand out to get the bartender's attention and orders another drink. Not a good time to let his mind lose the alcohol cloud he's worked so hard on. Not a good time to let himself think of Dean.

"Seriously, though, I've gotta be heading home pretty soon. Bela's gonna put me out on the couch if I'm late again. If you need someone to talk to, now's the time. I'm all ears for the next…" Victor looks down at his wrist and checks his watch, "Fifteen minutes."

It's a damn lucky break. Sam hasn't had the honor of meeting the fourth Mrs. Henriksen just yet, but from what he's gathered, she's a force to be reckoned with. He'll have some peace and quiet sooner than he was hoping.

"And just what do you think I need to talk about?" Sam challenges.

Victor lets out a heavy sigh, but he doesn't push, which is one of Sam's favorite things about working with him. Blade runners don't usually work in teams, not unless a case is too big to handle alone, and not very many of them wanna swap backstories when they do end up partnered. But Sam has gotten unlucky on a few occasions.

He watches his partner settle his bill, and then Victor gives Sam a friendly goodbye, his strong hand gripping Sam's shoulder as he tells Sam not to be a stranger. Sam watches him go with a kind of aloof fondness, but it's not long before he's lost inside his thoughts again.

The bartender keeps track of Sam's drinks for him, so he's not sure how long it's been since Victor left before he feels another hand on his back. Maybe a few minutes, though it's felt like hours, and maybe Victor forgot something or decided to pressure Sam into talking after all.

When he looks, though, the hand is pale, with just a few freckles scattered across the fingers bunched in his jacket, and Sam doesn't have to lift his head to know who it is. He swallows hard and closes his eyes, because he doesn't need to see the hand, not really. He's had that freckle pattern memorized since he was just a kid, and now all that seeing it does is make Sam want to taste them.

He shoves that down and curses his parents for the millionth time for putting so much attention to detail into building Dean. It would be hard enough not to want him if he wasn't so goddamn _human_.

"How'd you find me?" Sam asks.

He hears Dean laugh from just a few inches behind him, and the sound sinks all the way through Sam until it settles low in his belly, making him flush as hot as a supernova. "Your partner sold you out. He called and said you were pretty messed up over the job today, and that I should come scoop your drunk ass up if you weren't home soon."

"I'm fine." Sam doesn't bother trying to make it sound convincing. Dean always sees right through him anyway.

"Yeah, right," Dean replies with a soft chuckle. "As if any of your work buddies would call me if they weren't sure you needed help."

Sam frowns and turns his head up, almost hoping to see bitterness or hurt in Dean's expression, but Dean's completely neutral. Of course he is, he's a fucking robot. Sam is the only one whose feelings get hurt when his friends treat Dean like they're waiting for a sign he needs to be wasted.

Dean drops a few bills on the bar and stoops just low enough to pull Sam up by his shoulders. "C'mon, bigfoot. I'm gonna need you to work with me here."

Grudgingly, Sam tries to stand. He'd lose his balance if not for Dean propping him up, so instead he sways, finally finding his footing with his body pressed into Dean's chest. It doesn't make for a graceful exit, but they at least get as far as the parking lot.

The Impala is parked off to the side, just under a streetlight, and the lot is mostly empty, making it look like the spinner is on display. Sam wouldn't be surprised if Dean planned it that way. Dean's face is already lighting up as he approaches the vehicle, the way it always does when he gets to drive.

If a replicant can love anything, Dean loves this spinner. Always has, in an easy, uncomplicated way that makes Sam jealous on more than one level. He wants to say he doesn't understand the fondness, but Dean is a machine and his enthusiasm for the Impala probably makes more sense than the way Sam feels about him.

Technically, it's Sam's car. Replicants can't own property. But Sam has never thought of it as anything but Dean's, even before John passed away and left it to him. Sam's dad bought the Impala in 2967, when spinner licenses were still almost impossible to get a hold of, after his and Mary's first line of replicants started selling well. It's a beautiful car but dated, and she takes nearly twice as long as most spinners to get off the ground. She still drives like a dream on land, though, which is where Dean likes to keep her, and the reason she's in such good shape is that Dean spends every moment he isn't working or recharging making sure their spinner is in good shape.

He slides a hand reverently over the hood now, whispering, "Wake up, Baby," and, as usual, the car responds to his touch and his voice before Dean even has a chance to get the remote out. The doors lift up, and Sam slips into the passenger seat.

Sam waits until Dean gets in on the driver's side and the doors have slotted back into place to press his head against the window, looking up at the lights from spinners driving up above them. "We taking the skyway or—?"

"Can't be that drunk if you're remembering to make fun of me," Dean replies, shooting Sam a look before music starts pouring out of the Impala's speakers.

Sam grins as the car pulls out of their spot, wheels still firmly fixed on the ground. Dean insists he prefers land driving because there's less traffic and better views, but Sam hasn't ever been able to shake the suspicion that Dean feels something almost like fear every time they drive more than ten feet off the ground.

"It's okay that you're scared," Sam assures him. "I won't tell anyone."

"I'm _not_ scared," Dean insists. "I can't be scared."

"Uh huh," Sam replies, and he laughs when Dean makes the music go louder, drowning out anything else Sam might have said. Sam listens to the noise between them and dozes, only half registering the lights and billboards of the city as they pass through.

Dean has to shake him when they get home. He's not quite asleep, but he got lost in his thoughts again, remembering the way that replicant had screamed when Henriksen shot her mate.

"You with me, Sammy?" Dean asks, helping to lift Sam out of the car. "Just gotta get as far as the house and you can pass out, alright?"

"How many times do I have to program you not to call me Sammy?" Sam asks, remembering now that he's trying to stand just how drunk he is.

Dean catches him, palm spread out over Sam's chest as he pushes Sam back up from his stumble. "Looks like you messed up the code again there, Sammy," Dean replies, and it sends the same sharp stab into Sam's heart that it always does.

He didn't mess up. Sam knows how to program a damn replicant—he learned from the best after all—and eliminating a word from a vocabulary doesn't exactly require advanced engineering. But this—this glitch, or whatever it is—has proven impossible not just for Sam to override. Even John eventually just shrugged it off, declaring it a mystery, but not one worth his time to unravel.

Sam has altered Dean's biocode at least twenty times, trying to scrub out the nickname, but the reversal has never lasted more than a week. Sooner or later, he's Sammy again, and it’s not that the name annoys him so much, not really. It's that the way Dean says it always sounds fond and Sam's pathetic enough that he has trouble believing sometimes that the glitch isn't willful on Dean's part.

Which is crazy, Sam knows, but then, so are most of the things he thinks about Dean.

"C'mon, Sam. Hands over your head."

Sam snaps back into it and realizes Dean has led him as far as his bedroom and is now attempting to help him into pajamas. He laughs and pushes Dean away. "I can get dressed on my own, dude."

"Then do it, _bro_ ," Dean replies in a mocking tone. He tosses Sam the shirt he was about to force over Sam's head, and Sam wiggles into it while Dean watches, hovering like the mother hen he was programmed to be.

"Stop checking me out," Sam says once he's pulled on a pair of boxers. "It's creepy."

Dean snorts at that, knowing how full of shit Sam is. He's been helping dress Sam since he really couldn't do it himself. He scoops down, collecting the work clothes Sam had scattered as he drunkenly changed, and Sam sits at the edge of his bed, watching Dean work.

Finally, Dean has everything where he wants it, and he turns his attention on Sam instead. "We gonna talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" Sam asks, looking up with what he hopes is an innocent expression on his face.

"This case that's got you so fucked up," Dean says, moving to sit next to Sam on the bed.

He tries to take Sam's hand, and Sam pulls back. "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh save it, Sam," Dean tells him. "I always know when you're lying, so why do you even try?"

It's true. Sam has wondered from time to time if John programmed him to detect bullshit—it seems like a thing his dad would have done—or if Dean has just spent enough time analyzing his facial expressions to learn how to read Sam. He kind of hopes it's the latter, but it doesn't really matter now.

"You're a robot," Sam reminds Dean. "You hate talking about it."

"Oh, I know it. This is why you need a real shrink. But until you get one, it's my job to take care of you, so spill."

Sam takes a deep breath. "The replicants we…we retired today. They were different, Dean. They were so human."

"They weren't human," Dean interrupts. "They were replicants."

"No, you don't understand. They didn't just go rogue. It wasn't random violence it was…they ran away together. That's what they did to be put on the retirement list, they ran away together. They were working off-planet. They killed their guards so they could steal a shuttle and come to Earth, and they were passing for human for weeks before we tracked them down. They weren't hurting anyone else. They had jobs. They were in love. They were in love with each other, Dean."

"They were just mimicking what they—"

"No," Sam insists. "Her name was Casey. His name was Gil. We found her first. She tried to hide him. I told her we could get her pardoned if she told us where he was, have her sent back to work on the planet she escaped from. That's when he attacked, when they both attacked. They said they wouldn't be slaves, that they'd kill as many people as they had to in order to stay free."

"That's impossible," Dean tells him. "Why would a replicant want that? We only exist to—"

"Stop," Sam says, feeling sick and not even knowing what he'd rather hear.

He doesn't want Dean to talk like that, like there's nothing more to him than carrying out the tasks Dad gave him. But it doesn't help any, knowing that this is the alternative. If Dean could feel, like Sam spends so much of his life wishing Dean could, why should that mean Dean would love him? Dean would be in the right to identify with rogue replicants, to hate humans for making him a slave, blade runners even more so for hunting them, and Sam most of all.

"Okay," Dean replies, holding his hands up in surrender. "But that doesn't mean they could—"

"When Victor shot Gil, Casey stopped fighting."

"What?" Dean asks with a chuckle. "After all that she just stopped?"

Sam feels his eyes stinging, and he can't even bear to let Dean see him. "She didn't want to live without him. She…she asked me to retire her. Because she loved him and she _didn't want to live without him_."

"That's just stupid," Dean says with a laugh, and Sam feels like his heart is made of out of paper, as easy to crush into a ball or rip into pieces.

"That's human," Sam explains. "It's just human is what it is."

"You sure these were replicants?" Dean asks, getting up and wandering into the bathroom.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Sam replies when Dean comes back out with a couple of pain killers in one hand and a glass of water in another.

He holds them out and Sam accepts them, downing the pills and hoping he won’t remember this at all tomorrow. Dean takes the glass from him and tries to help him back into bed, but Sam stops him with a hand on his chest. He finds Dean's eyes with his own, searching them. He must be some kind of masochist.

"Do you understand, Dean? Do you understand why that bothered me so much?"

Dean nods. "You feel like you killed a person. You're wondering how many of the replicants you've retired have had loved ones. Look, Sam, it's not like that, okay? You retired some metal and coils that were malfunctioning, that's it."

It's only part of what's bothering Sam, and not the larger part, if he's being honest. If those replicants could love each other, why can't Dean feel a goddamn thing?

"You don't understand," Sam tells him quietly. "You don't really understand."

"No, I don't," Dean agrees. "I'm sorry, Sam. I wish I could for your sake. I'm just not programmed to."

"I know." Sam reaches out, cupping Dean's cheek with his hand. "If you could just feel something, that would be enough. I could make you understand if you could just feel _something_."

"You're drunk," Dean says, taking Sam's hand and lowering it to his side. "Don't do this to yourself. Just go to sleep."

"You can rest here," Sam tells him, shifting the covers to make room. "Just for one night, so you don't have to stand in the corner while you recharge. I wouldn't mind."

Dean laughs it off. "That would just be stupid. You know I don't feel discomfort, Sam. No reason for me to take up space in your bed. I can reload just as well on my feet."

Sam frowns, but he doesn't bother telling Dean that he's missing the point. Instead he nods and lets Dean steer him down into his pillow. "Okay. Goodnight, Dean."

"Goodnight, Sammy," Dean whispers, and his fingers skim lightly through Sam's hair before he stands.

Sam's left to wonder why Dean still acts out love the way he did when Sam was a child. He was programmed to back then, but it feels horribly unfair that it didn't stop when he reached a certain age. Dean still says his name so softly and looks at him like he's special, so convincing when the actions are empty and meaningless.

If Sam were sober, he might admit that now that John's dead, it's on him to deactivate Dean's affection, and that's why it hasn't happened yet, and that's why it's never going to.

But he isn't sober. He falls asleep with a faint blue glow swimming in his eyes, a sign that Dean is still hovering by his bedside, and he lets himself pretend it's love, not duty.

_______________________________________________________________

Despite Dean's best efforts, Sam wakes up with a hangover to end all hangovers the next morning. He practically crawls into work, has every intention of disappearing under his desk for a nap as soon as he's hit up the kitchen for coffee, but the Chief has other plans.

"Winchester, my office, now," Singer barks as soon as he sees Sam, before Sam even has a chance to drop his shit on his desk.

"But—" Sam begins weakly.

Chief Singer raises an eyebrow, the 'but what, idgit?' so thoroughly implied he doesn't even need to open his mouth, and Sam doesn't have a good answer, so he follows after his boss as fast as his self-pity fueled body will allow.

"They caught another one," Singer tells him as soon as the door is closed, and Sam is so out of it, it takes a few seconds to catch onto what his boss is talking about.

Oh, right. Replicants. This is a blade running unit, for chrissake.

"Sir," Sam begins. "Agent Henriksen and I retired two yesterday, and I still haven't gotten the chance to file the report so—"

"We'll leave the paperwork to someone less effective," Singer says. "Henriksen and Moore both went out on new assignments this morning before Agent Harvelle brought this one in, and I'll go ahead and overlook the fact that you're late and obviously coming off one hell of a bender, because I need you in there questioning it."

"Shouldn't Harvelle be interviewing her own catch?" Sam asks.

Chief Singer shrugs. "Jo's a good blade runner, and I'm proud of her, I am. But she's four months out of the academy, and this skinjob is part of the group you and Henriksen targeted yesterday. She stumbled on something too big for her and I need an experienced cop administering the Voight-Kampff test."

Before Sam gets a chance to interject, Chief Singer stands up and fishes a file out of his cabinet. He flips it open and drops it on his desk for Sam to see. "I figured you would want a piece of this one, anyway."

As soon as Sam sees the photo Chief Singer flipped to, he gets it. His body forgets its trouble and he's standing at attention without even realizing it, like he can feel his Dad breathing down his neck from beyond the grave.

He steps forward to pick up the file, observing the image of a bright yellow eye stamped onto a woman's wrist. "This is on the one in there?"

"That's right," Singer confirms. "Just like the two you boys fried yesterday. I figure you're closing in on the big boss."

Sam licks his lips. "I'll talk to her."

_______________________________________________________________

The replicant's name is Anna Milton. Anna, according to her file, but she adds the last name, puts stress on it like it's important to her that Sam acknowledge it, even though it's just a name she and her mate pulled out of their asses when they got to Earth and started living as if they were a regular married couple.

Truth be told, she's even more unsettling than the two from yesterday. Sam's been running the Voight-Kampff test on her for over a hundred questions and she's still a jump ball. He'd think Harvelle accidentally brought in a real human if not for the brand on her wrist.

"You're out to dinner," Sam says, reading from the script in front of him. "You catch your husband looking at another woman. How does that make you feel?"

Anna smiles. Her face is kind, eyes compassionate except for one flash of an instant as she listens to this question, and it's not a big enough giveaway to tip the test off, but Sam catches it. "My husband would never," she says easily.

Sam shakes his head. "It's a hypothetical situation, ma'am," he says. "Just like all the others. Go ahead and imagine."

"I don't mean he would never want to," she clarifies, her smile turning playful. "I mean he knows better, and he wouldn't dare."

He laughs. It's such a wonderfully human thing to say, and Sam can't help that he likes her. She's dangerous, he knows that, and once he gets the information he needs from her, he'll have to retire her. But it's making his stomach turn even worse than killing the two yesterday had. This one isn't attacking like they had, isn't giving him the it's-you-or-me mentality that helped him justify retiring those too-human androids in self-defense. She's sitting calmly across from him making jokes, and it feels like murder to even think of turning his gun on her.

Without consulting his brain, Sam starts leading the questions. Not down a path he knows she'll get tripped up on like he's been trained to do. He skips to questions he knows she'll pass on.

Anna lets it go for another half an hour before finally she says, "Mr. Winchester, I know you know. Why don't you just end this for both of us? The waiting, answering these questions, you dragging it on even longer than necessary…it's agonizing."

Sam hesitates for nearly a full minute before finally he pauses the test, cuts the camera and microphone. "If we keep going a little while longer, you can fool it."

She nods. "I know. But you know what I am."

"If you pass the test, all we have on you is the tattoo," Sam says. "You can say you saw it in the parlor window and liked it, play it off like you didn't reali—"

"Another blade runner will find me eventually." She doesn't say it like a question, so Sam doesn't patronize her by lying about it. "One who will shoot before bringing me in for interrogation. I'll spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder when instead I could protect…"

"Protect?" Sam asks after she's silent for too long. "Mrs. Milton, you understand that if you're working with Azazel, I will have to retire you. If you turn him in—"

"Your department's policy is still to retire me," she interrupts and, again, Sam doesn't lie to her about it. "I'm not protecting him. I hate him as much as you do."

"That why you have his insignia on your arm?"

"We were desperate," Anna tells him. "When we first got to this planet. We were fugitives, on the run, didn't understand the customs here. We never would have passed from first arrival. Azazel took us in. He offered us protection. As soon as we realized what kind of person he was, we got out."

"That 'we' refers to Casey, Gil, and Castiel?" Sam clarifies. "The other rogues you escaped from the V-876 colony on Europa with?"

At the name of her supposed husband, Anna flinches slightly, but she nods.

"We captured Casey and Gil yesterday," Sam explains. "I assume you knew that."

"Yes," she says, her voice hostile for the first time since Sam started examining her. He waits for her to turn, to get violent. They always get violent. Anna just sits in front of him with a defiant expression. "I heard that you killed my friends."

"So it's Castiel you're protecting?"

She doesn't say anything, so Sam leans closer. "Anna, you told me to stop the test for a reason."

"You could have retired me forty-five minutes ago," she says. "You tried to help me instead."

"I don't know what makes you so sure—"

"Something about the question about my husband looking at another woman tipped you off. I was made to analyze obscure data, Mr. Winchester. Off planet, I was used to identify exact placement of crops to yield the most harvest. If I know how to detect mineral levels in soil under my feet just by looking at it, I think I can read one blade runner's tells."

Sam licks his lips, decides to go ahead and give her the same respect she's given him. "Your pupils dilated at the test's first mention of the word 'husband.' Just the slightest bit. It wasn't enough to confirm for the test, but I figure you were nervous that question was going to give you away. Anna Milton has a husband, but replicants cannot be married by law."

"A perfect blade runner," she says teasingly. "One who can spot a replicant better than a Voight-Kampff test. You're quite the asset to this department, I bet."

"I'm a good cop," Sam says, brushing it off. Anna laughs softly, like she knows something he doesn't, and it makes Sam's skin crawl. "Let's keep the questions on you, Mrs. Milton. You've been sharing that name with your mate, a Castiel Milton—"

"He is my husband, not my mate. We aren't animals," she says, tone defiant. "And I love him."

"I don't question that you believe you feel that way."

"Don't condescend to me," says Anna. "I know you blade runners like to believe replicants don't feel. I guess it helps you sleep at night after you run around all day killing people."

"If you're going to get hostile, I will turn the test back on," Sam says.

She reaches out very suddenly, and for a moment, Sam thinks she's about to attack. Instead, she lays her hand over Sam's, and her face becomes openly desperate. "Please, I need your help."

"You need my help?" Sam asks. "You realize you're in a blade running unit and I'm a blade runner?"

"I know what you do for a living," she says. "But I don't think that's who you are. I trust you, Sam."

"It's Sam now?"

"You've been using my first name when it suits you," she points out.

"Fair enough." Sam sits back. "Let's say I'm willing to listen to what you have to say. What is it you need me to do?"

"I need you to protect my husband."

Sam's mouth drops open. "That's crazy."

"Is it?" she asks. "You were going to let me walk out of here, weren't you? After you figured me out, you were still going to let me walk."

"I…that's still different from actively protecting you. Or protecting another dangerous rogue who's still—"

"Castiel is not dangerous," Anna insists. "He's never hurt a human in his life, please. Listen to me. He's a good man. The least human of any of us, but he loves humans. He's kind, gentle. You fascinate him. He didn't even hold a grudge against the slavers on Europa. He only left with us because I couldn't stay there any longer."

"And in doing so, he assisted you and your partners in the murder of over twenty humans during the escape."

"No," Anna says. "The rest of us…look, I'm not proud of everything we did to win our freedom. But we did what we had to do. Those slavers were monsters, more so than I am, that's for sure."

"They were human," Sam reasons. "There are laws."

"Human laws," Anna says. "Human laws say not to kill, but what about our lives? Gil was an exploratory droid. They sent him and his squadron out to map new parts of the planet. They were seen as expendable—hundreds would die to discover the terrain on Europa, and he never knew what day it would be his turn. Then, after all of those replicant lives had been thrown to the elements, once the area was secured and potential threats assessed, they would send in some prominent human explorer and that person would get credit for 'discovering' the land. They would report no casualties. What's a replicant life to them? But we would lose our friends, Gil lost his sisters and brothers."

Sam pulls back slightly, repulsed by the idea that replicants might feel that pain the way a person would. But he keeps his tone even, a perfect mask over his uneasiness. "And this gave him a license to kill?"

"It gave him an impetus to get the hell out," Anna replies bluntly. "Casey was a pleasure model. I don't have to tell you the horrors she was subjected to."

"None of this makes what you did excusable," Sam insists, though truth be told, the whole thing is getting to him more than he would like to admit. He softens his approach. "Anna, I'm sorry for the way you were treated on Europa. I'm sorry to all of you, I truly am. But no matter how righteous what you did felt, I can't exactly go to my boss and tell him he should let you and Castiel walk the streets freely. He won't care. You're replicants on Earth. You've taken human life. It's black and white to him."

"But not to you," she says. "Please listen to me. Castiel drove the shuttle we stole when we escaped. That's it. The rest of us—we did what we had to do to get free. I didn't like it—I think Gil and Casey did. They hated humans, they believed what Azazel preached to us. I hated it, but I won't pretend I never took a life. My husband never did."

"That's not going to matter to my—"

"But it matters to you." Anna's tone is steel now, her eyes determined. If the Voight-Kampff were still on, she would pass for human easily. Replicants aren't supposed to be capable of this kind of fierce loyalty. "I know it does, I've been studying you. I know what kind of person you are. If you save my husband, he can help you. He can find Azazel for you. It'll be worth your while. I don't know how to find him. When we separated from him, I washed my hands of him, but Castiel has kept in touch. He wanted to make sure yellow eyes didn't decide we might turn on him and come for us."

"This doesn't make any sense. Why didn't you just walk out of here when you had the chance?" Sam asks. "Warn him yourself? Why would you _tell me_ where to find him?"

"Because he isn't like me. He isn't like Gil and Casey. He'll never pass a Voight-Kampff. He needs protection. He can't pass for human. I need your unit looking the other way while he's escaping, because the city is crawling with blade runners who would shoot him first and ask questions later. And I would rather have him owe his life to you than to that monster Azazel."

"Anna, you know that I can't have this much of our interview missing and no final say from the Voight-Kampff test unless…"

"Yes," she says. "I know no one will ask questions about the missing time if you retire me. I never expected to walk out of here alive."

"And yet you took this chance," Sam says.

"You're my husband's only hope," she explains. "Haven't you ever been in love?"

There's no control for Sam, as soon as she asks the question, his mind screams Dean's name, and Sam nods.

"Imagine the person you loved was a replicant," she says. "But nothing else was different. They still love you. They're still that person. Would you retire them?"

Sam laughs bitterly, more at himself than at the question. He doesn't have to imagine a whole lot here. "Never."

"Would you die for them?"

"In a heartbeat," Sam says.

"I don't have one of those," Anna jokes. "But I understand the expression indicates an affirmative response."

Sam laughs and rolls his eyes as he nods. 

"So will you help Castiel if I tell you where he is? I just need you to get a message to him and make sure that your colleagues are distracted in other parts of the city for the few hours he'll need to get out. Let him know we've been made, tell him to get out of town. Somewhere smaller, somewhere people won't suspect him as easily. Where the blade runners aren't as experienced. He can pass for human somewhere else, I'm sure of it."

"Yes, I'll tell him." Sam slides a pad and pen across the table to her. "Write down where I can find him."

"You promise you won't kill him?" Sam realizes for the first time that her eyes are wide, like she would be crying if that was something replicants were capable of. She's afraid. "You promise you'll go to him alone, that you won't tell the others how to find him?"

"I promise," Sam says. "If it's not to save my life, I won't hurt your husband. If he helps me find Azazel, I'll try to help him escape."

She writes down an address and pushes the pad back to Sam. "He works at a clinic in Sector Six."

"A clinic?" Sam asks, raising an eyebrow.

"He was a medical droid on Europa," she explains. "And he wasn't like the rest of us. He didn't feel enslaved. He loves helping people. It's what he wanted to do when we got here. Sam, he's a good man. Just like you."

"I don't want to do this," he admits as he reaches for his gun.

"I know," she tells him, and she puts on a brave face, reaching out to touch the hand he doesn't have on his weapon. "It's okay, Sam. My expiration date is not far off. Castiel still has years. This is what I want you to do."

Sam nods and closes his eyes. Feels like he's turning the gun on himself when he pulls the trigger.

_______________________________________________________________

The Chief gives him a fond slap on the back and the afternoon off when he finds Anna retired in the interrogation room. It takes everything Sam has not to scream, not to visibly shake in response to what he's done. Anna was a good person, and he put a bullet through her operating system. She told him to, to save a life she valued more than her own.

This isn't what his father raised him to do. This is execution.

Sam's instinct is to go on another bender, to let himself wallow for a few hours before having to look Dean in the eye after what he did to Anna. But he made a promise, he made a promise to a good woman before he killed her, and he's damn well going to follow through on it.

That's why Sam finds himself in a nondescript little clinic in one of the most run down sections of town by mid-afternoon, waiting to see the doctor, whose name, according to the sign on the door, is Castiel Milton.

He's called in after about an hour of waiting and led to a small white room. The doctor enters shortly after that, the same dark hair and bright blue eyes as in the pictures Sam and the rest of his unit were given last week, along with mugshots of the now-retired Gil, Casey, and Anna, when they were told to hunt these replicants to extinction.

The photos didn't show how expressive Anna's face was, the passion in Casey's voice as she screamed for her retired mate, and as soon as Castiel walks in, Sam knows they didn't do him justice, either. He gives Sam a kind smile as he takes a seat and asks what Sam is there to see him about.

Castiel is convincing enough, but not exceptional, not like the others had been. Anna was right. While she had taken over an hour even for him to identify as a replicant, any blade runner worth their salt would spot Castiel from his intonation alone.

"Your wife sent me," Sam says, cutting to the chase. "With a warning."

Castiel's big eyes immediately cloud over with fear. He doesn't have the tact that his wife had. If replicants can have emotions—and Sam is hardly clinging to any hope they can't at this point—Castiel's are far more basic, visible on the surface, whereas the others had shown some amount of human restraint in expressing themselves.

"Where is she?" he asks, stepping forward and putting his hands on Sam's shoulders. "Is she okay? Are you a—?"

"I'm not a replicant," Sam tells him. "I'm a blade runner."

Castiel staggers back, his eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal. For a moment, Sam is sure he's about to attack, hell, he wouldn't even blame him. But all Castiel does is shrink as far back as he can, press himself to the wall. "Did you kill my wife?"

"She's been retired," Sam confirms.

Castiel turns, pounds his fist on the wall, and Sam stands up. "Listen to me, you need—"

"Just do what you came here to do," Castiel says. "I never wanted to live on this planet. I never wanted to live anywhere she wasn't."

"I'm not here to ki—to retire you," Sam explains. "I'm here to warn you."

"Warn me?" he asks, turning to meet Sam's eyes. "What more could be done to me?"

"She died to save your life," says Sam. "You have to get out of here, try to move on, based on that alone."

"I suppose you're here to help me do that?" Castiel asks accusingly.

"I know you have no reason to trust me, but she did. She told me where to find you so that I could help you escape. How else would I have known to come here?"

Castiel shakes his head and takes his seat again, running his hands through his hair in a perfect copy of human distress. "This isn't right. It should have been me. Not her."

"She made her choice, Castiel. You can respect it or not, but I promised to do what I could to save you, so I am. You need to get out of L.A. Maybe the whole state. And fast. I'll be sending my unit down the wrong path, but that's only going to work for so long before someone spots you. Every cop in the city has your photo."

Castiel's lips tighten. "How did it happen?"

Sam shakes his head. He doesn't want to relive it, doesn't want to torture Castiel with more details than he needs. But the replicant stares at him unblinking, and finally Sam sighs and says, "She was caught this morning. One of my co-workers spotted the yellow eyes tattoo on her wrist—"

Castiel slams his hand on the nearest hard surface, and the movement makes the sleeve of his long white coat move up just enough to show that he has one too. "I always knew that bastard was going to cost us our lives one way or the other."

"I'm sorry," Sam tells him, and he's completely earnest, even if the replicant likely won't believe it. "He killed both my parents. I understand how you feel."

"Your parents," Castiel says, looking up too quickly. Sam can tell that he's calculating something, but he doesn't say what, just gives Sam a sharp nod of his head. "I've decided I trust you, like my wife did, Sam Winchester."

"You know who I am?"

"I'm fairly adept at connecting dots," the replicant says, raising an eyebrow. "Your story is not a common one. And I am, after all, a beneficiary of your parent's work."

"I suppose that's true," Sam says, trying to shake off the unease he's feeling from Castiel's sudden, laser-focus on him.

"You're not just here to warn me," Castiel guesses. "You want information."

"Anna told me you could help me find him," says Sam. "I can get revenge for both of us if you do, Castiel. I can make sure he doesn't hurt anyone else."

Castiel seems to consider it for a long moment. "I can't tell you where he is," he says. Before Sam has a chance to argue, he adds, "I genuinely don't know. But I can contact him, tell him I want to meet up tomorrow. I can tell him that…" he chokes a bit, but finally he continues, "I can tell him that Anna's death has made me reconsider my position toward humans. He will come to meet with me. He is loyal to those he sees as his kin, believe it or not."

"What made you turn from him?" Sam asks. "If he's not all evil."

"I would categorize him as evil," Castiel answers. "I never liked him. He doesn’t wish to reconcile with humans. He wants to kill. He enjoys it. I suppose his grievance is legitimate, but the bloodthirst, his wish to enslave humans—it's trading one injustice for another."

"I think we can agree on that," Sam tells him.

Castiel gives him a wry smile. "Most blade runners would not agree that any replicant can have a case against humans."

"Let's also agree I'm not most blade runners," Sam says. "I was raised by a replicant."

"Yes, you're quite the special case, aren't you?" Castiel asks in a tone Sam imagines he must use when he's examining a broken bone. It makes Sam profoundly uncomfortable.

"So that's his endgame? Kill all humans, enslave the ones that survive?"

"Yes," Castiel says. "Giving humans a taste of their own medicine, in his view."

Sam nods. That's in line with what his research on the replicant that killed his parents has told him. What he never was able to understand was what Azazel wanted from _him_.

"You were close to him. Closer than anyone I've interrogated. Do you know…?" Sam begins, but he shakes his head, thinking it's probably a stupid question.

"You want to know why he targeted your parents," Castiel says matter-of-factly. "Your mother specifically."

"Dad told me he was trying to get to me," Sam says. "But I was just a baby. What would he have wanted with me?"

Castiel looks pitying for a few moments before finally he speaks. "At that time, he was near his expiration date. I think he believed your parents would know how to extend his life."

"But why me?" Sam asks again.

The replicant seems uncomfortable, and he's not a good enough AI to get a lie past Sam. His answer is hiding something, and Sam knows it. "Perhaps he thought they would be more willing to help him if he had you as leverage."

"Yeah, alright," Sam says, not willing to push it when Castiel is cooperating more than any of the witnesses he's found in the last four years have. "So that's it? He wanted more life?"

"Azazel has found the override to his expiration date, as you I'm sure were aware. He has been killing blade runners for more than a decade, well over his four-year life. But he is not done with you or your family. He will still come for you, like he did when your mother died to protect you, and when your father did the same."

"Dad died because of me?" Sam asks. "That's not…Dad went after him and lost. His whole life was focused on killing Azazel after what he did to mom. He spent my whole life training me to be the perfect blade runner. He didn't die to protect me, he died for revenge."

"In a way, yes," Castiel says. "And in a way, no."

"Speak plainly," Sam demands.

"Azazel has achieved his most immediate need, he managed to extend his life. But he has a greater plan, and he believed that your parents were the only robotic engineers capable of accomplishing what he needed. He was sure they had already done so."

"What's that?"

"He wants to build replicants who can pass as human. He wants to create an army that can infiltrate human infrastructure until it is powerful enough to take control. Not just convincing copies like myself and Anna. What he needs is something that can fool even the best blade runners. 'More human than human,' as your parent's company used to say before it shut down operation."

"But they never accomplished that," Sam says. "Azazel killed mom and Dad quit creating artificial intelligence completely. The project got scrapped, he shifted gears, worked to make me the best of the best for the blade running academy and never built another android. The closest they ever got was Dean, and Dean is…he's special, but he's not human. He's a basic enough model that the government didn't even require he have an expiration date installed. He was produced long before replicants started going rogue."

Castiel is quiet for a long time. Finally he says, "Well, Azazel was and is still convinced they succeeded. And that means he's not going to stop coming after their research. He believes the blueprint to perfect fabricated life is locked up in the workshop you inherited."

"So it's kill or be killed," says Sam. Castiel nods and Sam shrugs. "I was planning to go after him anyway. I need you to set up a meeting for me, tell him to meet you at the abandoned Winchester Corp. factory. Then you can leave town. I'll make sure you're safe."

Castiel nods. "But Sam, Azazel is no one to be taken on lightly. He's good at killing. He enjoys it."

"I know that," Sam tells him. "My father was the greatest blade runner the world had ever seen and he…well, Azazel beat him. But I have to try to stop him. He's not hurting anyone else I care about. Dean would die to protect my parents' work. It's what he was programmed to do."

Castiel's expression is sad, probably thinking of his own recent loss, of the fact that she had given her life for him, just as Sam intends to do for Dean, if it comes to that.

"I hope you have a fun night planned," he says, and Sam doesn't think it's supposed to be a joke, but his flat intonation makes Sam laugh anyway. "It's probably going to be your last."

_______________________________________________________________

"Are you drunk?" is the first thing Dean asks when Sam staggers through the door. "Fuck, Sam, that's the second night in a row. You better not have driven, you better have taken a—"

Dean stops as soon as he sees the brunette under Sam's arm. His mother-henning quiets immediately, replaced by a perfect blankness.

"Dean, this is Ruby," Sam says, pointing to the girl. He looks for hurt in Dean's expression, but of course he doesn't find any.

"Oh, hello, miss," he turns to Sam, businesslike and detached. "Welcome home, master. Can I get anything for you or your guest?"

Sam hates, hates, hates when he talks like that. Is too drunk now to restrain himself from glaring and answering in a pissy tone. "No, thanks, Dean. Why don't you go power down for a while? My guest and I don't need you."

If that hurts Dean, he doesn't even blink. He turns to the girl Sam brought home and smiles. "Anything for you, ma'am?"

"Yeah, sure," she says, shoving her coat into Dean's arms. "I'll have a gin and tonic, if you can make that. Can these things mix drinks?" She laughs, poking Dean's face. "I've never had one. Would be pretty cool, though. Look how clean your place is! Does the robot do all of that?"

Sam purses his lips. "Don't call him a thing," he says.

"What, that's what it is." She laughs, tossing her purse on the couch, then kicks her shoes, which are caked in mud from the rain outside, onto the clean carpet. Like all the work Dean has done to tidy the place up was nothing.

It's enough to make him reconsider all of this, but he digs in. Dean won't care. Dean never cares about anything. Certainly not about Sam. He's going to die tomorrow for someone who's just as happy to mix a drink for the random girl Sam brought home as he was to spend his entire life cleaning Sam's house, for someone who never once looked at Sam with the desire this girl has as she sways her way to the bedroom.

Sam is probably going to die tomorrow and he cannot let his last night be spent the way every other one has, feeling sorry for himself over Dean.

Ruby sticks her head out from the bedroom and calls out Sam's name. "Are you coming or not?"

Sam shakes himself out of his thoughts and tries to let the alcohol drown him again. Tries to make himself believe this is as good an idea as it had seemed at the bar, or in the cab on the way here, or for the split second after he opened the door, before he saw Dean and forgot he could want anyone else.

"Yeah," Sam says, hurrying after her. "Yeah, of course."

A few minutes later, Sam is on top of her, making out as his hand creeps up her skirt. Dean comes in, casual as anything, and sets her drink on the nightstand.

"Ma'am, your gin and tonic. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Ruby laughs under Sam. "My god, that's awesome."

"Yeah, he's great," Sam agrees. "Dean, you're dismissed. Please go recharge in the other—"

"No, no, wait!" she says. Dean stops in the doorway, awaiting a command. "I wanna play with it."

"He's not a toy," Sam answers, repulsed. "Please stop talking about him like that."

"What it's not like I'm gonna hurt the thing's feelings," she says mockingly.

Sam sits up, turning his whole body away from her. That touched a nerve. Reminded Sam that Dean doesn't have feelings to hurt, but thinking of that hurts _his_. "Maybe you should go."

Ruby laughs for a moment, then her face changes to annoyance. "You can _not_ be serious."

"I am," he replies. "Please go."

"Because I was mean to a droid?" she says indignantly. "Come _on_. You're gonna choose your robot's dignity over getting laid?"

"He deserves to be treated with respect," Sam says, pressing a hand to his swimming head. "Just because he's not human doesn't mean he isn't a person."

"Oh my god, you're crazy," she says. "I came home with a crazy guy."

The insult makes Dean step forward. "Ma'am, I believe my master asked you to go. You should listen."

Ruby stands up, hastily grabbing the articles of clothing she'd scattered across the room when they had been sloppily moving toward the bed. "Yeah, okay." She turns to Sam, a nasty expression on her face. "I hope you and your skinjob are very happy together."

Sam watches her stomp out and slam the door, then slumps to sit on the bed with his head in his hands. Dean is still hovering in the doorway, and after a long spell of silence, he says, "Thank you."

Sam's head snaps up so quickly it makes the whole room spin. "Why are you saying thank you?" he asks. "Did she upset you?"

"No," Dean says. "Or course not."

Sam feels his heart sink for what must be the millionth time. He's tired of false alarms with Dean. He's tired of almost, maybe thinking Dean might be like those other replicants he met today, might be able to love. He's tired.

"But I know you sent away something you wanted for me," he continues, moving to sit next to Sam on the bed. "You didn't have to do that."

"And you didn't have to make her a drink," Sam says. "You don't have to take care of me, but you do."

"Of course I have to." Dean is smiling what would be a tender smile if it were real. He moves some hair out of Sam's face. "I exist to take care of you."

"I wish you—" Sam starts, but he chokes on it. "Forget it. I should just go to bed."

"I can take care of you like she was going to," Dean offers. He leans in and kisses Sam. "I have pleasure settings, you know that."

Sam remembers the first time he kissed Dean, the way Dean had stopped him then. Had offered the same thing in the same words, but made sure to remind Sam that it wouldn't ever be real on his end. _'I can't love you back, Sammy. You deserve someone who loves you.'_

"No," he says, mustering all his strength to push Dean away. "I don't want that. Not like this."

"Okay," Dean says. "Why don't we get you ready for sleep?"

Sam nods into his replicant's soothing touches and it's so familiar, such a common comfort, that he doesn't think about how it might be the last time he feels it. It brings him more peace than any random hook-up ever could have, anyway. And if he dies for this tomorrow, he'll know it was worth it, even if it's only his love he's dying for.

_______________________________________________________________

Predictably, Dean is up in arms when he hears what Sam plans to do the next morning.

"You can't go after Azazel alone," Dean yells. Sam feels like he's been yelling it for hours. Granted, he's a little hungover, but he's pretty sure it's been hours. "Are you trying to die? Is that it?"

Sam downs a few painkillers and shrugs. "Look, I'm going to call for back-up as soon as I'm sure he's going to show. I'm only going to poke around a bit by myself. I'll be fine."

"That's what John said to me," Dean says. "John said he would be fine. He's not around so much these days, in case you missed it."

"Dean, I know. I know this replicant is dangerous. It's _my_ parents he killed. You think I forgot?"

"They were my parents, too." Dean's voice is calm, rational. But his eyes aren't. "Sammy, I can't lose you like I lost them."

Sam frowns. He reaches out and presses a hand to Dean's cheek. "I have to stop him, Dean. He would come after us either way, this gives me an advantage. That's logic, I'm not doing anything crazy. You don't have to worry about me."

"Well, I do," he snaps, turning away from Sam's touch. "Of course I do. It’s what I was programmed to do from the day you were born. Before that even."

"Maybe it'll be good for you to find something else to care about," Sam says. "Something you can really care about, not just programming."

Dean's lips thin, but he changes the subject completely. "You said he would come for us. So let me come with you. This is my fight, too."

"If it were your fight, you wouldn't exactly be on my side," Sam points out. "You don't have a fight."

"How could you say that?" Dean asks. "It's my place to die for you. If you're going to go into something this dangerous, at least have me there in case you need someone whose death won't matter."

"Shut down," Sam commands, because he can't hear that, not now. Not from Dean. "I'll wake you up when I get home."

"No."

"I said shut down," Sam repeats. "That's an order."

"Your father programmed me," Dean says, as stubborn as the father he's invoking. "You think John Winchester didn't give me the ability to override a command if it means taking down Azazel?"

Sam makes a frustrated sound and kicks whatever piece of furniture is closest to him, which makes Dean laugh openly.

He narrows his eyes at the replicant. "You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?"

"Yes, thank you, sir," Dean says, saluting. "I was programmed to be a pain in the ass."

"I can't stand you," Sam adds.

"If you need to take a seat, I'll be happy to drive us while you sit."

"Oh, now you're gonna do the thing where you take everything I say literally?"

"Sam," Dean says, suddenly serious again. "Take me with you."

"Fine," Sam agrees. "But you have to promise me something."

Dean doesn't hesitate. "Anything."

"If I tell you to stand down, if I order you out of the fight. You have to listen to me. No matter what your programming allows you to do. You have to listen to me if I tell you to stand down."

"I promise," Dean says.

_______________________________________________________________

The Winchester Corp. headquarters have been abandoned for years. Sam always found his parent's factory a little creepy as a kid, but now it's downright unsettling. Unused bodies are scattered at random across the workshop, blank faces hang on one wall while unused eyeball prototypes hang from another.

And as he and Dean walk through the dark, dank, open room, there's only sounds of dripping water falling through cracks in the ceiling and the reassuring whirr of Dean's robotic limbs as he moves, two inches in front of Sam, like a human shield that isn't quite human.

"I guess my buddy Castiel sold me out."

The words echo through the room, folding on themselves a hundred times. Sam turns in circles, looks as best as he can into all the dark nooks and crannies, but he can't pinpoint where the sound came from.

"And to the blade runner that killed his own wife," Azazel continues, tsking. "I'll have to settle with him after I'm finished with you, Sammy boy."

"The name's Sam," Sam calls out. "And if you want to settle with me, why don't you come right out and do it? You're not going to take the coward's route now, not after you've spent so long trying to get at me. And failed at it so many times."

"You think I'll be that easy to rattle?" the replicant responds. 

There's a sudden clanking sound from their left, but Sam is sure the voice is coming from his right. If Azazel rigged the room to confuse Sam, it's lucky Dean is here. His replicant shakes his head when Sam turns toward the sound, pointing to a closed off section of the warehouse.

"You sure?" Sam whispers.

Dean nods, and Sam knows he's got all kinds of cool tricks embedded in him, so he trusts that whatever Dean tells him is accurate.

"Send a signal to headquarters. Give them the address and tell them we need as much back-up as they can spare."

"You got it," Dean says, dialing into his radio function, and Sam can grudgingly admit that maybe bringing him wasn't such a bad idea after all.

"You're not distracting me with your tricks," Sam announces, hoping to distract the replicant while Dean sends out the distress signal. "You have no chance against me. If you did, you would have killed me a long time ago."

"I'm not some foolish human," Azazel continues, taunting Sam. "I don't have an ego. I won't make stupid mistakes because of it. You're going to die, Sam Winchester. And I'm finally going to get what I want."

Sam rounds the corner, lifts his gun as soon as he sees the outline of a man. At first, he thinks it's a decoy, another body prototype, but when he looks to Dean, the set of his replicant's jaw is all he needs to see to know that they found the bastard.

"What is that exactly?" Sam asks, keeping the gun trained on the man-shaped monster in front of him.

Azazel turns, and Sam immediately gasps, taking a step back. His eyes glow bright yellow, just like every story Sam's ever heard about the replicant. The effect is somehow more horrifying than he'd ever considered.

"Oh, you like that, do you?" Azazel asks, reaching up to point to his face. "Managed to get the rest of my parts to function long after the expiration date, but the eyes really gave out on me."

"My heart bleeds," Dean says.

"Does it now, boy?" Azazel asks, grinning at Dean. "There's my second-favorite Winchester prototype. Still protecting the new baby? My offer still stands, you know. When you're done being a slave, I will happily welcome you to join my revolution."

"Over my dead body," says Dean, and Azazel laughs like it's the best joke he's ever heard.

"Remember, that's what your mommy said. Right before I killed her." Azazel turns to look at Sam. "Your slave Dean got in my way when I came for you the first time. He managed to get you away from me while your stubborn bitch of a mother refused to save my life. That's okay, though. I don't hold grudges. I got what I needed then. Except for the eyes, of course." Azazel rolls his bright yellow eyes and laughs. "She could have fixed these. Could have done me a lot of favors, and I would have made sure her family was safe. But instead she chose to die. You know, I took her eyes. Before I burned her. A little tit-for-tat."

"I'm going to take you apart and use you for scrap metal," Sam tells him.

Azazel claps. "And that's what your father said! Before I did the same thing to him. And now I'm going to do it to you, Sam. I'm going to take you apart, find out what makes you tick."

"You won't ever get the chance," Dean responds. "Shoot him, Sammy."

"Ah, ah, ah," Azazel says, raising his own gun, but this one he points at Dean. "I might be blind, but I know exactly where both of you are. So don't even try it."

"You can't see?" Sam asks.

"Do these things look like they work?" Azazel flourishes a hand at his own face. "Don't get cocky. It hasn't made me any less effective. You wanna test it? You might get lucky and hit me, but I'll get my shot off first."

"You're aiming at the wrong person," Sam says. "So I guess you're not as good at this as you like to think."

"Au contraire, Sammy boy," Azazel says. "I don't want to damage that nice vessel of yours. But Dean? Dean is useless to me. I don't much like killing other replicants, but I'll gladly make an exception for him. And I know all about Winchesters. You won't hurt me as long as I've got a loaded gun on Dean."

"You're not hurting him!" Dean yells, and he moves forward to attack.

"Stand down," Sam yells. "Dean, stand down."

Dean throws a look over his shoulder, meets Sam's eyes, and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Sam."

"You promised," Sam reminds him, seizing forward to grab Dean's arm and pull him back. "You promised you would stand down so stand down."

"I lied," Dean says, shaking Sam off. "I won't let him get you. The things he'd do to you…"

A shot goes off, and it's not from Sam's gun, which means Azazel must have fired at Dean. There's no time to think as Sam steps in front. The pain is immediate, bright white behind his eyes and a surge of pain sparking out from where the bullet hit until even his fingernails feel like they're on fire.

"Sammy," Dean screams. He grabs Sam's gun, and Sam hears another shot ring out and then there's a rain of sparks and the sound of electricity buzzing around them. Dean must have hit Azazel right in the powercore, because the replicant hits the floor before Sam does. Dean catches him, manages to pull him back and to his feet so that their fallen enemy doesn't knock into Sam on his way down.

There's a bright blue light pouring out of Azazel where he was hit, a puddle of black oil dripping from his open would and collecting on the warehouse floor. But as Sam's swimming vision begins to focus, he realizes that's not the only place the light is coming from, that the scent of oil is closer than it should be.

He looks down at his own wound, at the gaping hole in his side that Dean's big hand is pressed into, trying desperately to keep from spilling open. Sam sees blood, just like there has been every time he's been hurt, but this wound goes much, much deeper than any injury he's ever sustained before.

Under the tacky layer of blood and broken skin, there's black liquid greasing Dean's fingertips. There's blue light emanating from Sam. Cybernetics, not body parts, threatening to spill from within.

"No," Sam says. "It's not possible."

"Sammy, stay with me," Dean is saying. "I'm gonna patch this right up, okay?"

"How am I?" Sam asks. "I'm—"

"Shh, Sam. You can't, can't think about that right now, okay? We gotta get you outta here before—"

"What the hell?"

Sam raises his head toward the sound, recognizes Jess's voice and the outline of her body, even if he can't see well enough in his current condition to make out her features.

"Fuck," Dean curses under his breath.

And Sam chokes trying to say something, anything, that could help them right now. There's nothing. Back-up is here, and that means blade runners, and that means they're going to kill Dean and Sam, too. Because that's their business, that's what they do, they don't ask questions. And Sam is another job. Just like the rest of the replicants he shot in cold blood.

"Jess," Dean says. "You're Jess, right?"

"Yeah," she replies. "You need to raise your hands so I can see them."

"If I move my hand, he's gonna die," Dean says, angling his head down at Sam. "Please, you gotta help me."

"He's—" Jess says, tripping on what she's just realized. "He…I need his hands where I can see them, too."

Her inflection is more of a question than the confidence Jess usually has when making arrests. Dean must take heart from that, because he instantly changes his tone, practically grovels.

"Jess, you know him. He's your friend," he says. "You can't kill him."

"But he's a replicant," she says. 

"He's saved your life before. You've saved his," Dean begs. "Save it one more time, please. He's a good man. You've loved him, I know you have. Please."

"It's the law," she says, seemingly on auto-pilot. "I'd lose my job. I could go to jail."

"It’s not justice," Dean says, and he pulls Sam to his chest. "It's murder. You're not a killer, are you? Please. He's my brother. He's my baby brother."

"You don't—" she says, but she stops herself and shakes her head. There are tears in her eyes. "I don't understand. He took Voight-Kampffs with the rest of us in academy, and he passed easy. He's human. Sam is human, he can't be a replicant."

"More human than human," Dean mutters. He pulls Sam closer and Sam tries to say something, but he's too weak. "Please. You can come for me once I've saved him. He'll be just like a human again, no one but you ever needs to know. And you can retire me. Please. Just let me fix him."

"He lied," she says, her gun still fixed on them, and Sam can tell that she's trying to talk herself into doing what she's been trained to do. But her arm is shaking, and Sam knows Jessica Moore. She doesn't hesitate. Her arm doesn't shake. "All these years. I thought he was my friend and he's been lying."

"No," Dean says. His voice goes soft, almost a whisper. "He didn't know. Dad said he wouldn't fool anyone if he didn't believe it himself. Don't punish him for that. Punish me. Don't hurt him. Please. He's already hurt. Please, I have to save him."

To Sam's amazement, Jess's arm drops. She speaks in a low, rushed voice. "Get out of here, quick. Go get in your spinner and don't go home. Patch him up as much as possible, and get the hell off this planet, okay? Both of you. I can pretend you slipped by me, but I can't cover this forever."

Dean doesn't wait around for her to change her mind. He sweeps Sam up into his arms and starts running. The pain knocks Sam out.

_______________________________________________________________

Sam doesn't know how long he's out, but by the time he awakes, there's a thin layer of skin over the wound in his side, like scar tissue, so damn lifelike it makes his head spin. There isn't pain anymore. He almost wants to believe everything that happened was just a dream, that he didn't learn his entire life has been built on a lie. But the skin over his injury is just thin enough for the slightest hint of blue light to be visible underneath it.

He pokes it, thinking of the way the blue is also visible under the scar on Dean's knee, the one Dean gave himself to match Sam's when Sam was just a kid and he'd fallen off his first bike and Dean was trying to make him feel better about the pain.

For a moment, Sam smiles at the memory, and then it all crashes down on him. That never happened. That was just another lie that was planted in his head when he came off the assembly line.

Sam looks away from his healing parts and takes in his surroundings. Wherever they are is nothing like the sleek, modern loft he'd inherited from his parents. The walls are pink on the verge of brown, faded from years of neglect. The covers of the bed Sam is in are scratchy, and the first thing he smells is sterile, a remnant of Dean repairing him, but under that there's a musty scent that Sam assumes is what the room actually smelled like when they arrived.

"This is awful," Sam says, letting his disgust show on his face. "Where are we?"

"You're awake." When he turns toward the familiar voice, Dean is standing in the doorway to a bathroom Sam desperately does not want to see the condition of.

"Yeah," Sam says. "I guess I finished recharging."

"Sammy, don't—"

"Please don't call me that," Sam says. "Not right now. Sammy—that's what you called me when I was a kid, right? Except I wasn't."

"Sam—"

"Where are we?" he asks again, because there are so many questions more important than that right now, and Sam doesn't think he can actually handle the answers.

"I don't know," Dean says frankly. "I didn't really pay attention where I was going. Figured it would be harder to find us if I didn't actually try to go somewhere, you know? If we're lost, no one will know where to look."

"Did you have to choose _this_?" Sam asks, indicating the dump they're in.

To his surprise, Dean laughs. He moves forward and takes a seat that has already been pulled next to Sam's bed. "I was so worried. Had to get you fixed up as soon as possible, so I pulled into the first place I passed where no one would think to find us. Welcome to the Night Owl Motel."

"I guess if you were looking for a place people would want to avoid you definitely succeeded." Sam makes a disgusted sound and shoves the sheets off of him. "My skin is crawling, I feel like I'm going to catch ringworm in here."

"This is hilarious," Dean says. "You almost died and you're whining about the motel room." He reaches down and pulls the sheets back up. "You can't get ringworm. Can't catch any of those human diseases."

"Right," Sam says. Suddenly, it makes sense that he never caught a cold or the flu, no matter how many people at work were sick. "I almost forgot. Guess it was easier to think about the wallpaper than the fact that…" Sam lets the words taper off, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry you found out like that," Dean tells him. "I'm sorry you found out at all, but it shouldn't have been like that. But let me try to explain—"

"You've never done anything but lie to me," he says. "So I can't imagine what you have to say to me right now that I might want to hear."

Dean watches him for several minutes, completely silent, until finally he asks, "Do you hate me?"

Sam stares back, trying so hard to understand Dean. It sounds like real fear in Dean's voice at the thought of Sam hating him. He wouldn't be afraid of Sam hating him if he didn't feel. What other than love would have compelled Dean to save Sam, sit by his bed waiting for him to heal for who knows how long, hole up in this fleabag motel to keep him safe?

If Sam can feel love, Dean should be able to. And if what Sam feels for Dean isn't love, doesn't match the intensity of human emotion, he truly pities humanity. If what he feels for Dean is only a fraction of what real love feels like, he doesn't know how people make it through a single day.

"I don't know," Sam replies, pressing his palms into his eyes because, what do you know, apparently he's the one replicant in the world who can cry. "Can I feel hate? Because according to you, I shouldn't be able to feel anything, right?"

"You have a very advanced emotional programming," Dean says, trying to sound detached, but not really succeeding. "Mom said your system allowed for the same emotional range as natural human biology. If you think about it, their emotions are just neurons firing, just as mechanical as a replicant, if the programming is advanced enough."

"And you?" Sam asks. "How advanced is yours?"

Dean is quiet for so long that Sam knows before he opens his mouth that he's going to hate whatever the answer is. But Dean has apparently decided he's tired of lying, because he swallows hard and says, "They're the same. Mom handled personality programming, and she developed us faster than Dad was able to keep up with. My body is nowhere near as advanced as yours, but my emotional range is comparable to a—"

"You fucking liar," Sam says. "All these years, I thought I was crazy. You let me think I was _crazy_ , Dean. For being in love with you. For thinking you could love me, too. I thought I was crazy."

"I wanted better for you, Sammy," Dean says quietly. "You're so perfect. You're so human. You could have someone real. Someone who deserves you. How could I ruin that just because—?"

"But I never wanted anyone else," Sam yells, feeling like a petulant child from the way tears are stinging at his eyes. "I was so miserable, Dean. I thought you didn't love me."

"Of course I—" Dean's voice breaks. "We're made from the same parts, Sam. You're my brother. I tried to do what was best for you. That's all that ever mattered to me."

"No." Sam slams his hand down on the bed. "I treated you like a slave. I was awful to you. I thought you couldn't feel it. I left my messes behind for you to clean. You let me treat you like that."

"You never did," Dean says, cupping Sam's cheek. "No matter how much I tried to make you stop loving me, to treat me the way a person is supposed to treat their replicant. You never once did that, Sam."

"I don't understand," Sam says, shaking his head. "I still don't understand. I have so many memories, Dean. Of you. Of Dad. How much of it was lies? How much of my life has been made up?"

"None of your memories were lies, exactly," Dean says. "You just remember it a little differently than it happened." He smiles, as if putting on a good face will make sense of what he's saying. "I…I remember the same things you do. But I remember how they really happened, too. Like the scar on your knee. Dad dropped that piece when he was attaching it. And he was so angry, didn't have enough synthetics to create a replacement right away. So I cut my knee, too, told him we'd be matching, like brothers are supposed to. 

"That memory isn't completely a lie, right? They're all like that. They really happened. All those times I read to you when you were little and had nightmares. Mom used to let me read to you, when you were just parts, when we were building you together. I helped build you, Sammy. I helped you grow up strong and beautiful and so, so perfect. I loved you even then, when you weren't alive yet. My little brother, mom used to tell me. She loved me like a son, and she loved you, too."

"No. Stop lying to me, please stop lying. I'm so confused." Sam digs back, pokes at his memories, trying to find the moment they fall apart. They don't. Each one feels as real as the one before. "How could you not tell me I'm a replicant?"

"Honestly, I thought about doing it a few times. I even tried to once. There's some programming Dad put in me that even I can't override, Sam. He made damn sure I didn't tell you. Anyway, it was for the best. You deserve better than a replicant's life."

"You're wrong," Sam insists, still unwilling to accept the full weight of the truth. "I would be dead if I was like you. Azazel was aiming for your powercore."

"You're not like me," Dean reminds him. "You're perfect. You have a heartbeat, functioning replicas of human organs. You sleep and eat for sustenance instead of recharging. Your body generates the same fluids as theirs. So Dad put your powercore on the other side to fool anyone who tried looking for one. If that bullet had hit me like he'd intended, I would be a goner. But for you to die, he would have had to aim for the other side."

Still dumbfounded, Sam points to the generic framed photos on the motel's nightstand. "But there are pictures of me as a child. I have pictures."

"John and Mary had a little boy," Dean says. "He got sick. They lost him. That's him in the pictures."

"So I'm some replacement?" Sam asks.

"No, it was never like that," Dean assures him. "Mom couldn’t have kids again after that, but we were her children. She loved us, both of us, for who we were. She never pretended we were anything else."

"What about Dad?"

Dean frowns. "I think…he was always more interested in the science of it. But he grew to love you like a son, you know that."

"He turned me into the perfect blade runner," Sam argues. "A machine killing machine. That's…he didn't love me. I was just a weapon to help him get revenge."

"He got lost," Dean says. "After Mom died, Dad got so lost. You were the only thing that kept him going. And maybe some of it was about revenge, about turning you into something that would stop Azazel, but you were his son and he loved you. He even…" Dean looks a little sad, but he makes himself smile. "When you were at the academy and it was just us, sometimes he would call me his son, too. I think he might have cared about me, a little."

"He treated you like a thing!" Sam yells. "He must have known you could feel if he knew I could."

"He didn't," Dean says. "I hid it from him. He needed someone he could depend on without worrying about how they felt. I only wanted him to love you. And when he died…Sam, Azazel was going to go after you and Dad found out. He died to protect you."

"All those things Azazel was saying, about taking me apart, finding out what makes me tick. He meant it, didn't he? I'm the prototype he's been trying to steal."

"More human than human," Dean confirms. "The perfect replicant. Dad sent you to the academy to see if you could fool them, and you did. Even the damn blade running unit couldn't tell."

"Well, I'm glad I was such an interesting science fair project."

"Sam, that's not fair."

"What about any of this is fair?" Sam asks. He licks his lips. "You still haven't answered my real question, Dean. How long have I been alive? How many of my memories are actually mine?"

"Originally, after Mom died, Dad never wanted to build anything again. Then he got this idea, of taking the prototype they'd been working on and creating the perfect blade runner. It was the happiest day of my life, Sam. After all those years he wouldn't let me work on you, made me keep you locked up. It was too painful for him, I guess. To him, you were Mary's pet project. To me, you were my little brother. My best friend, even before we woke you up. You were always mine, so when I lost you…"

Dean trails off, seems to go somewhere he doesn't like until finally he shakes his head to clear it and continues, "But he brought you back to see if he could slip a replicant through the academy, get a perfect blade runner on the force. I couldn't have cared less why he did it. It broke my heart when he took you from me. Then suddenly I had you back and it was real, I actually got to bring you to life. That was just before you entered the academy. All the training you remember Dad and I giving you on how to fight? That was programmed into you."

Sam does some mental math and it's like a chill takes control of his chest. "Dean, that was well over four years ago."

"Yes," Dean says. "Yes, it was."

Sam sits up, grabs Dean's shoulder and shakes him. "How long do I have? What's my expiration date? I should have died years ago."

Dean licks his lips. "Remember when you got sick the year after you finished school? And you were asleep for days recovering?"

"Yeah, that…" It slowly dawns on him, and Sam nearly laughs at how obvious it is, now that he knows. "That was the only time I've ever been sick."

"That was your expiration date."

"You brought me back?" Sam asks. "How is that possible?"

"I altered your settings before the termination sequence was complete," Dean admits. "It wasn't your time yet, it was too soon."

"So what did you change it to?" Sam thinks on it, realizes that was almost four years ago. "Did you give me another four years? Am I—am I almost done?"

"Dad had already died by the time your expiration date came up," Dean says, seemingly out of nowhere. "Nobody else knew you were a replicant. No one except me. I don't have one, Sammy. I'd just lost Dad. I couldn't lose you, too."

"Stop making excuses and tell me how long I have to live, Dean!"

"I didn't see why you needed one," Dean whispers. "I know I was supposed to program one in. I tried, I did. But Sammy, I couldn't do it. I overrode the old one and…and I never put in a new date."

The blade runner in Sam is boggling at that. At Dean, who passed for being so simple all these years, committing an act so illegal even the worst of rogue androids have rarely ever accomplished it. Creating a replicant without an expiration date is punishable by death, even for humans.

"Dean, are you nuts?" Sam asks.

"Maybe, a little." Dean looks away from Sam. "If you want me to say I'm sorry or I regret it, I'm not and I don’t."

For a long time, Sam sits in silence, considering everything he's learned in the last few days. He feels puzzle pieces he hadn't even realized he was gathering slipping into place: the way Anna was so quick to trust him, Castiel's reluctance in explaining why Azazel had come after him. They had both figured him out, just as sure as he'd identified what Anna was when the test couldn't. Kin recognizing kin.

The more he puts his life under a microscope, the more it starts to add up that this was always there, always something he was choosing not to see. It doesn't even feel surprising anymore.

"Just one more question, then," Sam says.

Dean lifts his head, clearly dreading whatever's coming. "I've told you everything I know, Sam."

"Do you want me?" he asks.

Dean's eyebrows draw together, clear confusion, his features more expressive than he's ever let himself be. Sam's chest aches at the honesty of it, but it's a good pain this time.

"You said you love me. After all this time telling me you couldn't, you did love me. So was I imagining it when you looked at me? Those times you offered to fuck me, was that because you wanted it or because you felt like you had to offer?"

"I'm not supposed to be able to want," Dean tells him. "That's the truth. The only difference in our emotional programming was that you were supposed to be human, so they gave you every inconvenient impulse humans have. I didn't get some of those. Lust was one of them."

Stung, Sam nods. At least Dean loves him. At least he cares at all. The last bit, it would have just been the cherry on top. He tries to tell himself it's enough, but after a lifetime of needing Dean, he'd gotten his hopes too far up.

"Okay," he says, cutting his glance down to the mattress so Dean won't see how hurt he is. "Fair enough."

"You didn't let me finish," Dean says. "Those replicants that went rogue, they weren't supposed to feel at all. They grew emotions. I wasn't supposed to want you." Dean lifts Sam's chin until their eyes meet. "Do you have any idea how much it's killed me every time you brought someone home that wasn't me? All those times I saw you looking at me and I couldn't act on it? Fuck, Sam, you're everything to me."

Sam moves forward, kisses Dean, and Dean kisses back, automatic. It's not like the first time, when he pushed Sam away, and it's not like pleasure programming, clean and dispassionate and never something Sam felt comfortable trying. Dean kisses him with desperation, crawls onto the bed with Sam.

"Is this okay?" Dean asks, moving so that he's lying by Sam's side, his fingers tracing the skin around the bullet wound. "I don't want to hurt you. But I've waited so long to be close to you. I just want to touch."

"Of course it's okay," Sam answers, cradling Dean's face between both of his hands. "Dean, I need you. You're the only thing that makes sense right now, even if I wanna be pissed."

"Shh," Dean says, pressing a kiss to Sam's forehead. "Don't think about any of that. I'm gonna take care of you, okay? Always gonna take care of you."

"I know," Sam says, tugging Dean's shirt to signal that he wants it off. "Can we…?"

"You just got shot, Sam," Dean says.

Sam widens his eyes, gasps as he looks down at his chest. "Holy crap! You're right! I hadn't noticed that."

Dean laughs, giving Sam a playful bite on his bottom lip as he dives down for another kiss. "You're annoying."

"Little brothers are supposed to be annoying," Sam says with a shit-eating grin.

Dean pushes Sam's hair back. "I don't think they're supposed to be hot, though."

"Yeah, well, what do you know? You're a robot."

"You know what robots are really good at?" Dean asks, his lips hovering just inches from Sam's. 

Sam breathes him in, even though he's just realized he probably doesn't actually need to breathe. He likes tasting and smelling Dean as his brother drapes his body over Sam, every one of the senses he was wired to experience is overloaded by Dean, Dean, and more Dean.

"Tell me."

Dean smirks as he cups Sam's erection. "Good with our hands, Sammy."

"Can you…" Sam licks his lips. "Can you get hard, too?"

"For you?" Dean huffs a laugh. "I've been really struggling not to."

"Good," Sam says. "I want you to fuck me."

As soon as the words are out of Sam's mouth, Dean is working with his typical efficiency to make it happen as quickly as possible. He moves down, removing Sam's boxers as carefully as possible and when he gets up from the bed to undress himself, he's also looking around the room, assessing where he might find what he needs.

"See, you've got all the human problems," Dean tells him in a faux scolding voice as he disappears into the bathroom. "I gotta find something to use as lube so your delicate ass doesn't hurt."

"Prep time, what a drag," Sam agrees, rolling his eyes as he watches Dean go. "Just grab the conditioner and let's do this."

Dean reappears with the bottle and immediately gets to work on Sam, wetting one finger, then two, pressing them into Sam where it feels so good Sam could swear he was built just for this. That Dean was, too, the both of them made for nothing if not to be together.

"It's enough," Sam tells him as he grinds onto Dean's hand. "Please just fuck me already."

Dean nods, slicks his cock up and presses into Sam with admirable efficiency. Once he's inside, he fucks in and out a few times, makes sure the give is easy and that it feels good for Sam, and then he presses his face into Sam's neck.

"Sammy, can I try something?"

Sam laughs. "You're already up my ass," he says. "What more is there to—?"

Sam's question gets swallowed up as his teeth begin to chatter together, a buzz spreading from his ass to every part of his body and making him actually cry out in shock.

"That a good scream or a bad scream?" Dean asks.

"Oh, fuck, good," Sam says, rolling his hips with a sudden desperation that is frankly embarrassing. "What the hell is that?"

He can feel Dean grin against his neck. "See, like I said, you got the boring human dick. I got the fun robot dick."

"You! Vibrate!" Sam gasps, gripping Dean's back so hard he's kind of worried he'll break the skin. "Dean!"

"Yeah," Dean agrees, nosing along Sam's neck. "You feel so good, Sammy. Feel even tighter when I fuck you like this. D'you like it?"

Sam's answer is not even a real sound, let alone a word, but Dean must get the point when Sam shoves his ass up and comes without Dean ever having laid a hand on his dick. He spills into the already filthy sheets, and he would be really ashamed of his stamina, by how fast he climaxed after all these years dreaming of being with Dean, but he kind of thinks having a surprise vibrating dick was cheating on Dean's part, so instead he settles for kissing Dean's neck, moving just as greedily as he chases the shockwaves of pleasure Dean is sending through him as he was before his orgasm.

"Ah, Sammy, I'm gonna," Dean says, and then without warning, Dean shuts down and collapses on Sam.

Sam pushes Dean off of him and turns him on his back, freaks out for a few seconds until Dean's eyes open and he blinks up at Sam slowly. "Well, that was new."

"What the fuck just happened?" Sam asks. "Aside from the fact that your dick vibrates, which we're definitely going to need to have a conversation about at some point."

Dean laughs. "I guess my pleasure settings don't account for the possibility of orgasm?" He points to Sam. "You come like a regular person. Though, I hate to say it, you're shooting blanks. You can't actually generate new DNA."

"Wasn't planning on having a kid anytime soon," Sam says. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm great." Dean grins. "I guess since my ability to fuck was only supposed to be about giving someone else pleasure, my system overloaded and I shorted out for a few seconds?"

"I'll look into reprogramming your pleasure settings when we have a little down time, because that was the most distressing orgasm I've ever experienced."

"Speak for yourself," Dean says smugly. "That was _awesome_ on my end."

"Well, I'm glad we both had so much fun," Sam says. "Might be pretty limited on time left to do that."

Dean reaches out and pulls Sam in to him. "I know what you're thinking. Don't worry, Sammy."

"How could I not worry?" Sam asks. He looks Dean in the eye and says, "I finally have everything I've ever wanted, and we're fugitives. Who knows how long we have or where we'll have to go to be safe? We're going to spend the rest of our lives being hunted."

"We're in a real shit situation," Dean agrees, but he keeps playing with the ends of Sam's hair as if he's never planning to move. "Let me hold you for a few hours, see you smile. I've waited forever."

"We should be running," Sam mutters into Dean's chest, and he's cursing the calming effect Dean's touches have on him. He wants to be proactive, make a plan, but he's been lulled into such a warm, safe place, and it's easier to stay.

"We'll figure something out, Sammy," he promises. "You're still healing. We're in the middle of nowhere. No one is going to find us right away. We'll worry about tomorrow tomorrow. "

"What if tomorrow is too late?" Sam asks. "They're never going to let us live in peace. They'll find us eventually."

"Not if we go off-planet," Dean points out.

"If we go off planet, you'll have to live like a slave. I'll have to keep passing for human and if someone figures us out—"

"I don't care about any of that," Dean says. "As long as I have you, I don't care if other people think I'm just some replicant, okay?"

"So what? You're saying we should go to some random planet and start a new life?"

"You wanna stay on Earth after you've been made? Keep working as a blade runner?"

"Fuck, no," Sam answers. "I never want to kill something that isn't hurting anyone again. I have so many lives on my conscience. Tried to tell myself they didn't matter, couldn't feel—"

"Look, most of them couldn't, okay? Most of them were dangerous, like Azazel. You can't beat yourself up over it. I wasn't lying when I said that to you the other night."

"Okay," Sam says. "So we leave. Find another planet. Start a home maybe."

"We can be civilians, Sammy," Dean says, and Sam's face is still pressed to his brother's chest, but he can _hear_ the easy smile on Dean's face. "You, me, and my Baby."

Sam snorts. "Of course you want to keep the spinner."

"Hey, how do you plan to get to another planet without her?"

"You love the car more than me," he jokes, getting out of bed and heading for the bathroom. "Always have."

"Don't be jealous," Dean calls after him. "Can't we have a nice robot threeway: you, me, and our girlfriend?"

Sam closes the door instead of answering him and presses himself up against the wall so he can hear Dean's unrestrained laughter. Happiness rushes through him, and it doesn't matter anymore if it's through wires or veins. It's better than human.

**The End.**


End file.
